


Ronnie Sawyer and The Case of the Candy Store.

by The_Doom_Dahlia



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: 1940s, Alcohol, Cabaret Reference, F/F, F/M, Femme Fatale, Film Noir, Multi, Private Investigators, Suicide (mention only), this is like a lesbian pulp novel without the 'Bury Your Gays'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Doom_Dahlia/pseuds/The_Doom_Dahlia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When cabaret singer Heather Chandler's bodyguards die mysteriously, it's up to gumshoe Ronnie Sawyer, her secretary Heather 'Mac' McNamara, Chandler herself, and ace reporter Heather Duke, to find out whodunnit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I listen to 50's short films and write.

_"There was a cabaret, and there was a master of ceremonies, and there was a town called Sherwood in a county called Defiance. It was the end of the world-and I was dancing with Heather Chandler._

_And we were both fast asleep."_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess you could say it all began on September 1st, 1948. It was a rainy day in Sherwood, the sky a dusky grey that gave everything a murky, creepy feeling, like a moor from a Bronte novel. Rain washed down the cracked, dirty streets, dripping into the sewers below. As I looked from my little window, I could see nothing but cars rumbling down almost empty streets and trees bending low from all of the water. Everything was grey and brown and black, and for all I know, the only bright thing in the entire world was the neon sign outside my little apartment, blinking back and forth with the steady pace of a grandfather clock, glowing: Ronnie Sawyer, Private Eye.

The place was almost all blue and white, my own design, most of it bought from thrift shops or gotten from my parents, the walls papered like a Persian rug and the floors coated in soft blue carpet. Everything was blue and white, save for the two mahogany desks, one in my office and by the fireplace, the Kit-Kat clocks on the wall (one black as pitch and the other a pale crimson), and everything my secretary, Heather McNamara would bring with her.

I’d never understood why Mac worked with me. The whole town knew how rich she was, her pop had made a boon selling rings to the Vanderbilts and Carnegies of the world, but she still hauled her pup (named Cheese, ain’t that a laugh), some records and a typewriter as yellow as the sun into work, everyday except Sundays. I asked her once, over some wine after a good case, and she said I was the only person in town who’d put up with her ‘peculiarities’. I didn’t see a single thing peculiar about her, but I wasn’t gonna question it: Mac was a pal and I didn’t wanna lose her.

But you didn’t come to hear about that, did ya? No, you came to hear about the dame, and all the trouble and temul she hauled in with her.

Well, like I said, September 1st was a boring day. I was perched in my chair, watching the cars pass by beneath, listening to Mac type away at something. Whether it was a case file, a recipe or the next Gatsby, I’ll never know. All I know is that it was a quarter to three when the door in my ‘lobby’ swung open and the typing ceased. It sounded like some strange duet: the high, quiet chirp of Mac’s voice mingling with that of the stranger’s low, dramatic tones. All at once, the duet ceased, and my door swung open.

Then she walked into my life, scrambling it forever: Heather Elizabeth Chandler. She was all curves on the outside and all sharp edges on the inside. Draped in crimson, with a brush of blonde curls and the deepest, brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. As soon as our eyes met, a weight dropped inside me, heavy as a ball of lead. I know what you’re thinking: ‘love at first sight’, right? Sorry to rain on your parade, but it wasn’t love at first sight, but fear. Because something inside me knew the truth.

Heather Chandler was going to be the beginning of all of my troubles. The beginning and the end.


	2. The Case At Hand

She looked like something out of one of those old paintings of ‘ladies of decadence’- a rococo painting brought to magnificent life, all curled up in a fluffy white coat I later found to be completely fake, just like everything else on the outside. She coiled up in the blue armchair in front of my desk, sinking into that creamy, soft fluff until only the left side of her head and a single pale, thin arm tipped with red nails, sharp as claws, were visible, clutching a bag as crimson as her dress. With a single, fluid motion, she pulled a photograph out of her bag, tossing it onto the table.

“Now, now honey, ain’tcha gonna say ‘howdy’ first?” I teased, chuckling to myself. The dame didn’t seem up to joking.

“You’re a private eye, aren’t you?” She asked. Her voice a Joan Fontaine-type, dripping with sin and sweetness, but I could feel the undercurrent of worry in her voice.

“Soitently.” I answered in my best Bugs Bunny, drawing myself up in my chair with pride, the patchwork blazer over my shoulders nudging a little lower than I wished. With a flourish of glory, I extended my hand, smudged from ink from writing reports on cases and in my own diary. “Veronica Winona Sawyer, the flattest foot in Defiance County.”

She stared at my hand, peering over every digit and inch of skin before she took my hand. “Heather Chandler. A pleasure to meet you.”

I allowed a smile, then picked up the photograph she’d given me, raising my monocle to my eye (astigmatism is a real kick in the head), and peering at the gentlemen in the photo. Immediately, I recognized the faces: a pair of real dim bulbs, strong as oxes but complete jackasses: Kurtis Kelly and Rupert ‘Ram’ Sweeney. They’d been football stars back in high school, two of the biggest, but ever since a rumor had been spread that they were ‘friends of Dorothy’, they’d become social pariahs. Last I’d heard, they’d taken jobs at the local cabaret, _The Candy Store_ , as bodyguards.

“Kurt Kelley and Ram Sweeney.” I said aloud, tapping my nail against the picture. “Haven’t seen them in ages. How are they?” I asked.

“As good as you can be when you’re dead.” She said bluntly, barely batting an eyelash.

I felt the color drain from my cheeks. Golly, I hadn’t liked those two one bit, but I hadn’t wanted them dead. “How?”

“Apparently they downed a bottle of whiskey together and offed each other. A note by the bottle said they were tired of hiding their ‘gay forbidden love from a misapproving world’. Which brings me to why I’m here: I don’t think they _wanted_ to die.”

“You think somebody else bumped them off?”

“Very much so.”

“What makes you think that, Bright Eyes?”

Heather turned in the chair so she could look me in the eyes, and almost immediately, that weight in my gut dropped again, hard enough to make me forget how to breathe. “You knew them in high school-you think they could have spelled ‘misapproving’? Shit, I can barely spell ‘myriad’.”

Once I’d remembered how to breathe, I laughed at that. “Alright, Miss Chandler, I’ll take your case..if you have the dough. A gal like me doesn’t work for good reviews.”

As soon as the last ‘s’ had left my mouth, Heather hauled out a small stack of bills from her purse, tossing it to me. Flipping through, I could see Ben Franklin’s face grinning up at me from each piece of paper. “Half now, half when you’re done.”

I smiled. “Deal. I’ll be seein’ you soon, Miss Chandler.” I said cordially as she got up, writing down her contacts in a notepad on my desk.

She gave me a slight grin. “Please, from now on, just call me Heather.” She purred, winking, turning on her heel and leaving my office-and my head-in a haze of perfume and of her.

I flopped in my chair, peering at the photo, making a few calls, and writing what little I knew, before getting up and grabbing my overcoat and my bag. With a swing of the door, I emerged into the ‘lobby’, where Mac sat, running her fingers through Cheese’s fur. “Hey there, sunshine.” I greeted, grinning.

“That woman who came in was really loud.” She murmured, fingers tracing patterns in her dog's fluff, brown eyes wide and worried. “What was she in about?”

“I’ll tell you on the way to the Melville offices. We’re gonna meet up with a reporter pal of mine, Heather Duke, to see if she has any more information.” I explained, tossing her her jacket. “Get your umbrella, it’s gonna be a long walk.” I added, watching her scramble. Soon, we stepped out into the rainy day together, just me, her and a mangy yellow mutt, looking for that great white whale known as ‘the truth’.


End file.
